Absent Heritage
by chappysmom
Summary: "He'll be at a charity event tonight, one sponsored by the Earl of Undershaw." Sherlock tried to ignore the amusement on Mycroft's face as he told him. What could be so amusing? Charity events were always deadly dull. He was sure this would be no different. Part of the Heritage Series. 3 Chapters
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked. This is the newest story in my "Heritage" series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

In this short story, we jump ahead to post-Reichenbach … what if John's life had changed even more than expected while Sherlock was away?

#

* * *

#

"What life? I've been away."

Sherlock ignored the sneer on his brother's face. Of course he looked judgmental—that was Mycroft's default setting, wasn't it? Oh, he supposed that maybe his comment could be considered insensitive or bad manners or some such nonsense, but it was the truth, wasn't it? No matter how baldly stated? It wasn't like John had been doing much (anything) with his life before he met Sherlock. Realistically, what could he be doing with it now? Working long, dreary hours in some surgery somewhere, no doubt. Dating a stream of bland, forgettable women, going for drinks 'down the pub' … God, the mere thought was enervating.

John was going to be so relieved to see him. After the initial surprise, he would be so glad to have something more interesting to do with his dull little life.

Mycroft was still watching him with that disapproving look he'd mastered by the time he was ten. There was an edge to it, though, that Sherlock couldn't identify. Expectation? Anticipation?

"What is it?"

"Whatever do you mean, brother mine?"

"Something about John. What is it? Oh, don't tell me. You're going to say something dull like he's moved on, or is in a relationship, or something equally boring."

Mycroft smiled. "As you said, you've been away."

Sherlock huffed. Was this really the time to be playing games? "Just tell me where I can find him, Mycroft."

"Of course," his annoying brother said, "He'll be at a charity event tonight."

"Charity event?" Sherlock admitted that _was_ a surprise.

"One for wounded veterans," Mycroft said as Sherlock sighed. It was as boring as he'd feared. Poor John must have died of boredom while he was gone to have sunk this low. Wounded veterans? Really? Mycroft was still talking, though, of course. "One which provides possibilities for career soldiers who have lost their profession, as opposed to the average soldier who never plans on making it a long-term commitment. It's sponsored by the Earl of Undershaw, who has a distinct interest in such things."

Sherlock gave a dismissive half-nod/half-shrug. He supposed he could understand why John would be involved, in the absence of more interesting things (i.e., him). At least it wasn't one of those boring charities pandering to the self-pitying wounded who couldn't be bothered to find a new purpose for their lives. A small voice pointed out that John had been just such an ex-soldier before Sherlock came along, and didn't men and women who had sacrificed much for Queen and country deserve some help when they returned, but he just ignored that as annoying.

Well, he supposed that explained John's interest in such a charity, though he couldn't imagine what he was doing at a fundraiser. It's not like John had a surplus of funds, not unless things had truly changed since Sherlock had … left. Maybe he worked for them? Volunteered? Perhaps he had helped organize the event .. though he couldn't help a smirk at the thought of John being responsible for a ballroom full of wealthy donors.

All he said, though, was "Fine. Where is it?" and then tried to ignore the amusement on Mycroft's face as he told him. What could be so amusing? Charity events were always deadly dull. He was sure this would be no different.

#

Sherlock entered the ballroom, unsurprised to find it full of boring, moneyed people looking for an excuse to dress up and give money away, all in return for their names in the paper. Dull. So very, very dull. No doubt the Earl behind the whole thing was just as boring, looking for attention in return for Good Works.

Carrying his tray, he circled, keeping an eye out for his erstwhile blogger. Where might John be in this crowd? If he was a guest, he was likely sticking near the outskirts—or possibly chatting with some of the ex-military types that were dotting the room. If John was working, though, he would be in a location where he could watch for problems—near the front, then. All Sherlock knew at this point was that John hadn't been in the kitchen when he'd collected his tray of hors d'oeurves.

Holding the tray high so as not to impede his progress (it wasn't like this crowd needed the extra calories), Sherlock worked his way toward the front of the room and, ah, there he was.

He stopped in his tracks for a moment, looking at John, absorbing the changes. His friend had lost weight in his absence. His hair was greyer than it had been and the lines in his face were deeper. His smile was as warm as ever, though, as he leaned toward the blonde at his shoulder. His suit was remarkably well-fitted, Sherlock thought, and better quality than his suits had been before. Keeping up appearances for the event?

More worrying, the blonde next to him was smiling at John as if he'd hung the moon. The attraction seemed mutual—not that that meant anything. John's dating history supported the theory that he would fall in love at the least encouragement. No, what was worrying was that the woman was a liar. But lying about what? She couldn't be a gold-digger, not if she was sniffing around John Watson. Sherlock would be the first to admit John's sterling qualities, but wealth had never been one of them.

He was trying to sort through the flood of deductions when someone collided with him, causing him almost to lose his tray. Recalled to his disguise, he started to apologize, but blinked when he recognized Lestrade. What was he doing here?

He ducked his head, though, and offered his tray. "So sorry. Canape, sir?"

"No, thanks. I wasn't watching where I was going," Lestrade said, smiling as he looked past him. "I was too busy watching for … there he is. John!" He gave a friendly nod and stepped forward as John's head turned.

Sherlock turned away quickly as John looked in his direction, praying that his friend's tendency to see but not observe was unchanged. As much as he looked forward to surprising John, the middle of a ballroom was not the place for it.

He was in luck, though, because even John had a tendency to overlook serving staff—or at least he did when a good friend distracted him. "Greg," he called over. "Glad to see you."

Lestrade hurried over, a wide grin on his face as he reached forward for a handshake. "You, too, John. And Mary. It's good to see you again. This is quite a turnout."

"I was just saying that to John," the woman—Mary—said. "He seems surprised."

"Well, John is nothing if not modest. You should be proud of yourself, though, mate."

Ah. So John was involved with the charity, Sherlock thought as he moved necessarily away. Perhaps that had to do with his new suit? A need to look professional yet blend in with the wealthy crowd of donors? He wondered if Mary was one of them. She had her hand on John's arm, now, so clearly more than a professional acquaintance.

The variety of possibilities were overwhelming. Sherlock hurried back toward the kitchen, intercepting a waiter heading that way and trading his full tray for the man's empty as an excuse to get out of sight. He dropped the empty tray on a convenient counter and kept walking until he found a quiet corner.

Leaning against the wall, he considered. He hadn't expected seeing John to be so overwhelming. He was glad to see his friend looked well, after all. And he supposed John would have needed some kind of employment during Sherlock's absence, but seeing him laughing and at ease, in a (good) suit, with an adoring woman on his arm … he was missing something. What was he missing?

He could hear the amplified voice of the evening's master of ceremonies, thanking people for coming. Sherlock worked back toward the door, anxious to see more of John, wondering again at his role in the event. Hugging the wall, he watched as the remainder of the guests took their seats until only a handful of people were standing. The MC at the centre of the head table, microphone in hand, next to two empty chairs. Mary was sitting in one of them now, which surprised Sherlock. He had thought she was John's date for the evening?

"…It's because of him that we're all here together. His experiences in Afghanistan sent him back to London without a profession—other than the hereditary one, of course." There was a murmur of laughter as the MC smiled over his shoulder toward the corner where John stood. What was going on? "The army's loss, though, was our gain, because not only did he find a new life helping solve crimes with Sherlock Holmes, but he was driven to found this charity, the reason we're all here tonight. Please help me welcome the man who has dedicated himself to helping our wounded heroes find new meaning for their lives—and if he has a penchant for law-enforcement, who can blame him? I for one think our police force benefits widely by the skills the army puts in place. So, please, welcome the man of the hour, the Earl of Undershaw, Lord John Watson Brandon, former army surgeon and captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

The burst of applause must have been deafening because suddenly Sherlock couldn't hear a thing over the ringing in his ears. Had the man just said what he thought he'd said?

At the head table, John was smiling and shaking the man's hand as he took his place at the podium. "Thank you, Geoffrey, for that overwhelmingly flattering introduction. And he's right, of course. Some of our wounded veterans have lives to get back to when they can no longer serve. Families. Careers. Options. But there are some—and I was one of them—who devoted their careers to the armed forces and, when that is ripped away, are left with a very specific set of skills and nowhere to use them."

Sherlock stared at his former flatmate and wondered if he had perhaps had a stroke. Had his hearing returned at all? Maybe he was hallucinating? Because there was his friend speaking comfortably in front of a crowd of wealthy snobs, being _charming_ as he spoke about his feelings of loss on his return to London, and how meeting him, Sherlock Holmes, had changed all of that. "I know what you're thinking," John was saying, "It's not like I needed another career when I had an earldom waiting for me—except that would mean you don't know me very well. I've never been one to sit idly, so it would have been impossible for me to sit and twiddle my thumbs waiting for my father and grandfather to die and leave me the title. And anyway, it didn't matter if I'd been raised in a palace or a council estate—losing the career you've worked your entire life for—or two careers, in my case—is devastating. I was sleepwalking through my days, bereft of purpose until I met Sherlock."

It was an illusion, of course (or a hallucination), but Sherlock could almost believe John was looking right at him as he said that. Had he really had such an effect on John's life? Or rather, of course he _had_, but he was surprised to learn that John realized that.

"It was through Sherlock that I started working—no matter how unofficially—with the good men and women at New Scotland Yard. Suddenly, I had purpose again, as well as an outlet for the rather unique set of skills I had learned from being not only an army surgeon but a soldier as well." He paused to take a sip of water. "You all know, of course, what happened to Sherlock—hounded to his death because of Moriarty's lies. After his death, there was a time when I could have slipped back into depression, but then I inherited my title and found a new purpose—finding satisfying careers for the other men and women who had served their country and found themselves in the same boat—if you'll excuse the Navy reference."

There were chuckles around the room and Sherlock blinked, recalled to himself, trying to assimilate this new flood of information.

Was it actually possible that John was the Earl of Undershaw? How had he kept that from Sherlock all those months?

He absorbed the facts in front of him. John's well-fitted, bespoke suit. The introduction. His ease in speaking in front of the crowd of strangers. If this had been a scheme of some kind—assuming John would be involved with anything like a deception on this scale—there would have been traces of guilt or deception in John's body language. But there weren't. His expression and demeanour were as open and friendly as always.

Certainly the others in the room seemed convinced that he was authentic. And then there was that damned knowing look on Mycroft's face earlier.

It had to be true, then. Somehow, beyond all rational possibility, John Watson, his loyal blogger, was the Earl of Undershaw.

"Of course," John was saying, "Not all military skills can be easily translated into civilian life. Marksmanship and familiarity with firearms, for example. Outside the occasional duck hunt, it's not like getting a weapons permit is easy or even possible. Believe me, I know."

Sherlock couldn't help the snort of laughter at his friend's familiar black humour. As if John had ever let the lack of a permit stop him from carrying his gun when needed. The tickle of amusement dried into a cough in his throat, though, as John's eyes met his … for real this time, because John froze mid-sentence, eyes boring into Sherlock's as his face visibly paled.

Sherlock kept his gaze steady even as the rest of him froze to match, both he and John held motionless for one long moment of recognition.

Too long a moment, though, because the audience of wealthy dilettantes were starting to rustle about in their overpriced clothes, and some were starting to turn Sherlock's way, curious as to what John was staring at.

Well, that would never do, and so Sherlock stepped quietly back into the shadows along the wall. When had he stepped away to begin with? Clearly the shock of learning John's identity had wiped away his normal situational awareness, since Sherlock had no desire to draw attention to himself. He had wanted to see John, to surprise him, yes, but not in front of a crowd of one hundred wealthy, bored gossips.

Luckily, his step backward, fading into the shadows, had recalled John to his own position, and Sherlock watched him blink as he glanced down to his notes. "I … er … so sorry. I was momentarily distracted," he said, and then slapped his hand to his pocket and pulled out his phone. Glancing down at it, he looked back at the audience and said, "Saved by the bell. I am truly so sorry. This is the worst possible timing, but I'm afraid I really need to take this." His eyes met Sherlock's again as he added, "_In the hallway_," leaving Sherlock with no doubt but that it was an order to meet him there.

Sherlock moved along the wall, easing his way among the few people and serving staff still standing. He heard John laughingly telling people to please get on with their meals, and then his blogger was moving toward the exit closest to Sherlock.

Finally.

#


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock slid quietly through the door to the hallway and couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. The moment he had worked two years for was at hand. In mere seconds, he and John would be face to face—and each with his own surprise.

He had to admit, the symmetry was unexpectedly pleasing. They would both have stories to tell from his absence. He understood Mycroft's smirk, now. John had actually been busy, not moping around, and Sherlock had to admit that was … better. He supposed it was preferable to a repeat of the featureless existence John had had before he'd met Sherlock.

At the very least, this would make John one of the very few peers who were even remotely interesting.

His brain snagged on that point, again, caught by the idea of John, his John Watson, being an Earl, a peer of the realm. At this drama-laden moment, Sherlock couldn't think of anything else that had surprised him quite so much … ever, really. Not since the Pool, anyway, and that surprise had really belonged to Moriarty, not John.

John.

Where was he, anyway? Shouldn't he have made it to the door by now? Ah, there. The door was opening.

John was pale behind that ridiculous moustache he had grown. (What had he been thinking?) His eyes were wide as he looked up the hallway, and then even wider as he spotted Sherlock.

John's hand went out, bracing against the wall for a moment as he stared, and, as the silence stretched out and his expression grew positively stricken. Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that. He had known this would be a surprise, certainly, but John looked like he'd seen … ah.

"Short version, then," Sherlock said, "Not dead."

"Oh my God," came a woman's voice behind John. The blonde. Mary.

"Not quite," Sherlock said, but the quip did not have the expected effect of helping John regain his sense of humour. If anything, he looked now as if he'd been punched in the stomach, or was having a heart attack. A worrying supposition. "I'm sure this is a surprise, but I'm not the only one with unexpected news, John … or should I say Lord Undershaw?"

John was practically gasping for air as he stared at him and Sherlock was beginning to feel concerned that he might have misjudged the emotional impact his return would have on John. "You're making jokes?" he forced out. "Now?"

"Just trying to…"

"Break the ice, yeah," John said. "I remember. And I told you to…"

"Stick to ice," Sherlock completed, suddenly unsure that this had been the right choice.

An uncomfortable silence reigned for a moment as John apparently fought to remember how to breathe. Finally, he wheezed out, "Two years?" Another desperately long inhale. "You let me think you were … dead … for two years?"

Unexpectedly stung by the pain—pain which he had caused—Sherlock did what he always did. He lashed out. "I'm not the only one who was keeping secrets, _Lord Undershaw_."

John's jaw muscles pulled even tighter. "That's not the same, Sherlock. You killed yourself. Right in front of me."

"No, I didn't," Sherlock corrected. "Not dead, remember?"

There was rage building behind John's eyes now and Sherlock was reminded how lethal John Watson could be when driven to it and felt a moment of trepidation. His date (girlfriend?) apparently recognized the danger signs as well, because she stepped forward and laid a hand on John's arm. "There's obviously a lot to talk about, but is this really the place? I'm sure the press would be delighted to have a story this juicy come out of an otherwise routine charity event, but I'm guessing that's not what either of you want?"

John sucked in another harsh breath, blinking rapidly, and then stepped back, shaking his head. "No, you're right. This isn't the place to bring up the past … the _dead_ past," he spat out. "Tonight is all about making new futures for men and women who have had their lives ripped away from them just because they were trying to do what they felt was right—a need I am all too familiar with."

And with another hard look at Sherlock, he turned on his heel and marched away, leaving Sherlock staring at the swinging door. He glanced down at the blonde, at Mary, knowing his perplexity was written on his face.

"You really know nothing about human nature, do you?" she asked.

"Nature? No…" He looked back at the closed door, wondering how this had gone so badly. "Human…?" He trailed off.

To his utter shock, she patted him on the arm. "Don't worry. I'll talk him round."

She smiled up at him and then was gone in a whiff of perfume and the slither of silk.

#

—_Earl of Undershaw? SH_

He sent the text and then leaned against the brick wall, longing for a cigarette. How had things spiralled out of control so quickly? He had had faith in his blogger's ability to survive and had been confident John would have forged a new life for himself—however dull—from the ashes of the old one. But, this? Sherlock admitted he had not seen this coming.

—_Trouble in paradise?_

Sherlock would swear that even the chime alerting him to Mycroft's text sounded smug.

—_Why didn't you tell me? SH_

—_I thought you preferred to deduce things for yourself, brother mine?_

And, damn him, it was true. Sherlock vastly preferred to see and touch and learn for himself. It was even possible that he would have disbelieved his brother had he told him—not that Mycroft made a habit of making jokes.

—_Nevertheless. SH_

It was all he could think to send back. He had worked toward this reunion since Moriarty had forced him to make that leap, and there was part of him that felt … bereft … that it hadn't gone as planned. By rights, he and John should be sitting together at 221B by now while he expounded on all the reasons the last two years had been necessary. Things should be back to normal—or as normal as they could manage, allowing for a certain readjustment period.

Instead, he was standing here alone with only his brother's texts for company.

He supposed he should be grateful that John had refrained from punching him.

—_You do know that John's temper flares strongly but burns down quickly._

—_Of course. SH_

Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and taking a deep breath, took one last glance at the ballroom door and then turned and walked down the hallway alone.

#

"_What life? I've been away_."

The words were haunting him now that the value of John's life had suddenly been forced into very clear, smoke-scented relief. The terror of the night before when he thought John's life would be lost in a spray of sparks and flame was haunting him, more immediate than the fear of Moriarty's snipers.

Sherlock had always been aware of a certain amount of hubris. Lack of confidence had never exactly been his problem, either, but how had he thought that John's life would not change at all during his absence? Oh, he might not have seen the Earldom coming (though he was going to have to look into how he'd missed the signs), but still—loyal though John might be, didn't the man deserve a life of his own, especially once presumably bereft of his best friend?

Because he was his best friend, thought Sherlock. He was reasonably confident that it went both ways, still. Once they got past this minor hiccup. Even with this new addition of Mary.

Mary … well, she had been a revelation. So much more interesting than John's prior girlfriends. They had all been insipid and interchangeable in every way except the most superficial differences like hair colour. But Mary … she had almost immediately offered to help bring John around to Sherlock's side, which was an act of generosity he had not seen coming. In his experience, John's girlfriends had tended toward jealousy where Sherlock was concerned. More interesting, she seemed to honestly care for John—even to love him.

That had been clear, last night. Her desperation as they worked to find and rescue John from the bonfire was proof of that. Most so-called normal people paid lip service to the importance of saving lives, but when John was yelling from that bonfire, had anyone tried to help? Had even one of those "normal," good, church-going people made a single move to put out the fire or help the man trapped underneath?

No, of course they hadn't.

Had it been up to that entire crowd of supposedly good and decent people, John would have burned to death, trapped as he was. They probably hadn't actively wished John any harm, but their lack of action to prevent it had had much the same affect.

But Mary … Mary had been right there in the thick of it, trying to help. Which made her quite literally extra-ordinary, since she had behaved outside the norm.

Sherlock supposed that the fact that she knew John might make a difference. She loved him, she said, and well, Sherlock could certainly understand how anyone, once they knew John Watson, would be unable to let him go without a fight. John deserved it, certainly, but Sherlock had been relieved to see it. At least John had settled for a woman who cared about him.

It had been all too appallingly close, though. John had been lucky to get away with a few cuts and smoke inhalation, along with whatever after-effects the sedative had left behind. The important thing was that he was relatively unharmed, though, and Sherlock couldn't be happier about that.

Well, "happy." That implied a rather brighter outlook than he was currently considering. Relieved, certainly, but there was also a sense of … guilt? Maybe, but definitely feeling disgust that after two years away doing everything he could to ensure John's safety, he had nearly been killed when Sherlock had been back less than 24 hours.

That was entirely unacceptable.

If there was any life Sherlock would do anything to keep from being snuffed out like a candle flame, it was John's.

No matter what careless words he had spoken to Mycroft yesterday, Sherlock was all too terrifyingly aware that John Watson's life was too valuable to waste.

Which is why he was here, standing outside John's rather elegant townhouse, vacillating as to whether he should ring the bell. Really, it was entirely unlike him, this waffling. That in itself was almost as worrying as the reception he might expect from inside.

He was just pausing (again) on the pavement when the door opened and Mary smiled out at him. "You might as well come in. He's worried you'll wear a hole into the pavement."

And with a sigh, Sherlock nodded and stepped inside. It was time to make amends.

#


	3. Chapter 3

To Sherlock's relief, John looked very much himself. He wasn't sitting huddled in a chair or wanly tucked under an afghan on the couch. Except for the tended cuts at his temple, he looked altogether well, sitting at a desk with his laptop, just as he should be.

He wondered if seeing that should really feel so very reassuring.

"Weren't sure of your reception?" John asked him, smile reassuringly warm as he stood to greet him.

"What makes you ask that?

"Mary said you were wearing a hole in the pavement."

Sherlock shot Mary a glance, recognizing the phrase. She had crossed to a small chair by the window and picked up the book lying there. Clearly, she had been there some time—probably watching the entire time he'd vacillated in front of their door, like a jilted lover who both did and did not want to know their lover's indiscretions.

Mary was smiling at him, now. "I ordered some tea."

Sherlock glanced at John, still trying to adjust to the idea of John sitting still and letting someone else wait on him. He was so used to the mental image of John making the tea. His mouth watered at the thought. John made excellent tea.

"Believe it or not," John said, waving him toward a cosy arrangement of chairs, "Mrs McTavish makes excellent tea."

Sherlock blinked. When had John started to deduce?

His friend laughed. "It was obvious, Sherlock. You always liked when I made tea. Admit it, you were looking forward to it."

"Maybe," Sherlock mumbled.

An uneasy silence fell as the three of them sat and watched each other. Sherlock was relieved to see John seeming so much more himself than the other night in the hallway. He was calmer now, relaxed—and the idiotic moustache was gone.

"You shaved it, then?"

"What? Oh. Yeah. It wasn't working for me," John said with a glimmer of his old humour. "Just as well, really. I didn't need anything else flammable on my face last night."

"If it had been longer, you might have been able to use it to filter some of the smoke—it might have made breathing easier."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Let's not test that theory."

"No. Best not. Too late now in any case."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to follow that up. What was the correct balance between small talk and apologies? He was never sure, and so the silence lengthened.

Finally, John said, "Thank you for coming, last night. For helping Mary … and me."

Sherlock looked up from his examination of the carpet pile. "Of course I helped," he said, stung. "I didn't spend two years trying to keep you alive just for you to be murdered in a ridiculously melodramatic fashion the day after I returned to London."

John blinked. "Keeping me alive?"

"Well, of course, John. Why else would I have left?"

"It's not exactly something we had time to discuss the last two times we met, Sherlock," John said. "Both times, there were…"

"Too many people around?"

John huffed a laugh. "Yes, let's go with that." He paused a moment, then said, "I was on my way to see you. You know, yesterday. When I was grabbed."

"You were?"

Sherlock might have said more—though exactly what he was unsure—but it was that moment the door opened and a doughty tartar of a cook entered with a tea tray roughly the size of the Isle of Wight. He sat quietly while John thanked her and then mysteriously found his eyes rather itchy as John prepared a cup exactly the way Sherlock liked it. He had remembered, then, and that made Sherlock feel hopeful that this situation might still be salvaged.

He barely managed to wait until they were all sipping tea. He even took a biscuit from the overflowing platter and took a time-passing bite before repeating his question, still wondering whether he had heard correctly. "You were coming to see me?"

John's face showed a flash of … compassion? … as he said, "Of course I was."

"I … I just thought you'd be … that you'd still be …"

"Angry? Furious? Generally pissed off?" Sherlock nodded. "Well, I was all those things, Sherlock. I still am, to tell the truth and give fair warning, but in addition to making me furious and lying to me for two years—you also saved my life last night. Without wanting to encourage you to arrange similar situations every time we have a row, I will say it's a remarkably effective means of softening some of the sharper, angrier emotions."

Sherlock gave the smallest of smiles, barely a twitch of the lip, unsure if he was supposed to be amused or not. "I'll make a note of it."

"Since you're here, though … who was that, last night? And why did they come after me?"

"I don't know." It was the question Sherlock had been asking himself ever since. "I hate not knowing."

"Think how I feel," John said with a laugh. "Though from the sounds of it, I've been under something of a death sentence for the last two years without knowing it."

Sherlock met his gaze, feeling unusually tongue-tied. Should he tell him how he survived the jump? He had mentally rehearsed that so many times, but he hadn't planned on it coming after an actual life-threatening event for John. Perhaps that would make it more traumatic for him? Or, knowing John, less traumatic? And then, maybe it was the reasons that he had jumped that mattered more than how he had done it. John was much likelier to forgive him if he knew the reasons, wouldn't he?

John's expression was looking somewhat frozen now, and Sherlock realized that his brain had carried on for too long, he'd sat without responding for too long a pause.

"I didn't expect…" He began the sentence, and then stalled, completely, uncharacteristically uncertain of what to say next. He was probably as surprised as John was when the next words he said were, "I'm sorry."

He was surprised because they even felt different on his tongue, tasted different, more bitter and yet more sweet than they had before. Odd. How had he never noticed that words had flavour? He'd heard the expression "weighted words" before, but had never experienced it. Words had always been light, cutting—tools at his disposal, to be used according to his will. When had they developed these new characteristics that made two simple words so much harder to move past his teeth, as if the sheer mass would make them fall from his lips to crash to the floor, punching a hole in the floor as they fell?

Oh. Too much silence again. He looked up at John and noted an unusual expression on his face. It was a blend of the familiar disbelief and incomprehension Sherlock had often seen there, but it was softened by … appreciation? Some kind of acknowledgement, he thought. Respect, maybe, except that John had just said how angry he was.

Finally, after a long, somewhat incomprehensible moment, John said, "Right. So, is that why you came today?"

It was a good question, Sherlock thought. He had had such a myriad of reasons, he still wasn't sure which was paramount. Making sure John was well after his ordeal? Trying to make amends for having lied to save John's life two years ago?

Those things and more, but what he said was, "I need your help."

#

Sherlock hadn't expected it to work, not really.

To be honest, it hadn't even been a plan, so much as the first words that came out of his mouth. He had not expected John to volunteer his help.

He should have, though, he mused as they walked the dark Tube tunnel. If there was one thing he knew about John Watson, it was that the man couldn't resist providing aid and succour when they were needed. A terrorist threat against London? Of course John was going to help, no matter how battered and bruised from his own kidnapping and near-death the day before.

What had been new had been John's insistence on calling his assistant to make schedule changes before they left the house. Since when had John had an assistant?

Oh, right. The Earl thing that they hadn't talked about yet. Sherlock admitted to being … unsure … how to approach that. He had been ready to confront John about withholding information. He had been angry, even. But then John got himself kidnapped and nearly roasted to death in a fire and … well, yelling didn't quite seem appropriate anymore.

Especially since John had greeted him so graciously.

Really, such friendly openness might as well be a dirty trick, the way it cut his metaphoric legs out from under him.

No, "smoked" or not, John had leapt to Sherlock's aid just like he had countless times and if he had delayed long enough for a couple phone calls? It was no doubt the mature and correct thing to accept that he had other obligations. Not that Sherlock was happy about that. He had wanted things to remain the same. He had expected that—after a week or so of awkwardness—everything would have been back to normal. Him. John. Mrs Hudson. 221B. Annoying Mycroft. All of it.

He hadn't counted on an Earldom. And, really, how had John kept that from him all this time. _Why_ had John kept it from him?

But that wasn't the point, now. Now, what mattered was that he and John were together, chasing down a terrorist, just like God planned, if He existed at all, which Sherlock had always doubted but with the serendipitous way things were working out, he was suddenly almost willing to believe in a benevolent Higher Power.

Hmm. He was having the oddest trouble, today, keeping his brain on track … particularly ironic considering his current location, really. He could see John's torchlight bobbing up and down as the man walked and marvelled again at John Watson's loyalty. He wasn't sure whether John was here for him, or because this was a matter of national security, but in the end, did that matter? He was _here_. They were together.

There was no doubt, though, that saving John's life last night had helped. Well, of course it had. John couldn't very well be walking with him now if he were dead, now, could he? But if he had died, he would still have been angry with Sherlock and wouldn't have come anyway. That is, naturally, of course he would have been angry. Sherlock wouldn't have saved him. But luckily he had, so John had forgiven him …enough to come with him, at any rate.

Good grief, was this endless tunnel ever going to end? His mind was running amok without any real input. It was John who thrived on adrenalin, after all. Sherlock did best with puzzles, and this was just … train track, endless and boringly the same.

No … wait. Up ahead. That was a train car. He glanced over at John, meeting his friend's gaze with a nod.

The game was on.

#

"No, I'm sorry, I've got nothing."

"You don't … Jesus…"

John's breathing had intensified in the last few minutes, as if he were consciously trying to control his inhalations. Sherlock supposed that was a fair response. John's army career had very clearly shown him exactly what a bomb could do to the human body, and of course, he had been all too close to one himself at The Pool.

No, John's reaction to standing on top of a bomb big enough to destroy the Houses of Parliament was reasonable enough. Just this side of panicking, but not frightened enough to run.

Which was a mystery, really. Why wasn't he running? Was it because he knew it was hopeless? That if a bomb this size went off, he would still be too close to the blast? Or was it a sense of duty, to do his best for England and her people? And he had a fiancée now, didn't he?

Or was it a sense of loyalty to Sherlock himself?

Before he'd been forced to jump off Barts, Sherlock would have been sure it was would have been his friendship with Sherlock.

Now, though?

How much of that loyalty was still there, after a two year absence? How much could have survived, after the lies Sherlock had told? Because one thing he knew about John Watson, the man abhorred liars. Oh, not innocent lies, to help solve a case, or to save someone's "feelings." John was realistic and could lie fairly convincingly for a good cause. But the big ones? Like those between best friends who've depended on each other, saved each other's lives? Apparently a lie on that scale was something different.

John was a realist, though, and it was that realism that gave Sherlock hope for their friendship—because no matter how painful Sherlock's lie had been, it had been for the ultimate Good Cause of saving not only John's life, but Lestrade and Mrs Hudson's as well. He was sure that John would forgive him for that. Eventually.

Besides, Sherlock's oh-so-very necessary deception wasn't the only big elephant of a lie in the room, was it? Yes, Sherlock had hid the truth of his survival for two years, but it had been to save John's life. What about John? He was an _Earl_. Not a new one, elevated for exceptional bravery or some such nonsense (if that was even possible). Mycroft hadn't pulled strings to honour Sherlock's friend as some obscure means of apology. This wasn't some inconsequential, unimportant little knighthood. Oh, no. This title was hereditary, which meant (1) John's family was and had been noble for longer than Sherlock had known him.

Which therefore meant (2) that John had lied to _him_.

It was a lie of omission, it was true, which is marginally less hurtful than a flat out lie to his face. (Though hadn't John said he needed a flat share? Clearly not true—look at the house he was currently living in.) And anyway, wasn't his own lie of similar nature? He hadn't actually _told_ John he was dead, after all. He'd simply jumped from a building in front of him and then let him draw his own conclusions….

Though he _supposed_ that might have been more emotionally damaging than he'd intended. Not that he'd had much time to make arrangements, after all. And John was still alive, wasn't he? Nor had he said a single word of apology or explanation as to his own deception.

For a fleeting moment, Sherlock was reminded again why he didn't usually "do" friends.

Except, of course, that was before he'd met John. Or Lestrade or Mrs Hudson, for that matter. And he found that having them in his life added savour. Having John in his life made all the difference. Sherlock had spent the last two years being truly alone and …. It was not an experience he had enjoyed. (Not even counting that torturous imprisonment there at the end which had been really very much not enjoyable.)

So, since John was a friend—and there was no doubt he was—why had he not shared this information with Sherlock? Had Sherlock offended him when he'd scoffed at Mycroft's threatened knighthoods? Did John seem like the type of man who would be sensitive about that sort of thing?

There was only one way to find out.

"I'm sorry, John," he said, forcing his tear ducts to moisten, "I don't know how to turn it off. You should go. Go now!"

"There's no _point_" John gritted out, even as his breathing grew even harsher, more laboured. "Jesus. I never thought I'd die this way."

"You weren't supposed to die at all," Sherlock told him. "That was the whole point. And now you'll never forgive me."

"Forgive…?" John stared at him. "Sherlock, you're the most infuriating man I've ever known, but you're also the greatest—and my best friend. Of course I forgive you."

Sherlock didn't want to admit how his heart warmed at those words. He was on a mission. "Best friend? You couldn't even trust me with your secret."

"You lied about being dead for two years, Sherlock, and you're saying that I had secrets?"

"The Earl of Undershaw?" Sherlock said, voice clipped.

"I wasn't an Earl when you jumped off that bloody building," John shot back. "You're not the only person I lost, these last two years. My father and my grandfather both died while you were 'away," leaving me more alone than ever—you don't think I couldn't have used my best friend then? And, anyway, I did tell you—it's just not my fault your grave was empty at the time!"

"Ah, so you _don't_ forgive me."

"Forgiving you doesn't mean it stops hurting, Sherlock." John looked at him with eyes filled with regret, now. "It's just … this is really terrible timing."

"Terrorists aren't exactly known for their consideration," Sherlock said.

"No. For what it's worth, though, I'm sorry I never told you about the title," John said. "But really, how was I to know you didn't already know? That you hadn't observed it yourself?"

"I don't know everything, John," Sherlock said. "Obviously."

"Obviously," John repeated, eyes drifting down to the bomb … and then stopping, staring at the paused timer. "Sherlock…?"

And, inappropriate as it probably was, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. Laugh at the stunned look on John's face. (He'd missed that so much.) Laugh at the sheer relief that they'd made up. Laugh at the realization that he was _home_.

John was yelling at him, calling him names—furious, again—but Sherlock didn't care. This flavour of John's anger was all too familiar, resonant on the tongue, on the ears, as he yelled at Sherlock for being a berk, for being inconsiderate—all things Sherlock had longed to hear for the two years he'd been gone. He had no illusions about his tactfulness or consideration—if anything, they were probably worse now than they had been when he and John still shared a roof—but this? It was like having his conscience back.

"There's an off-switch, John," he finally said, reining in the laugh enough to speak. "There's always an off-switch. Terrorists can make far too many mistakes unless there's an off-switch."

"You…" John couldn't even find the words he wanted to use now.

"If it helps," Sherlock told him, feeling almost giddy as he wiped away his tears, "I have absolutely no idea how to turn any of these funny little lights off."

And there it was. Almost against his will, John smiled then, and it felt as if the sun had come out.

They were back.

#

THE END


End file.
